Undo, Retry
by Olafr
Summary: Harry's killed by Lucius Malfoy. Or is he? The Prophecy gets in the way, and Harry has to do it all again. [at long last, ch.5 the trip to hogwarts]
1. Prologue

Undo, Retry  
Prologue

by Olafr )

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter and associated milieu, characters, and situations are owned by J.K. Rowling and her licensees. This is a work of fan fiction, produced solely for enjoyment. No infringement of rights is intended.

**Rating:** PG (so far)

**Last updated:** 28 August 2004.

**Author's Notes:** After real life took me away from working on a recalcitrant Time of Change, my muse brought me here, demanding that I write. Who knows if this story's going to go anywhere?  
.

  
.

This late at night, the hospital wing always seemed to have a strange feel to it. It was both forbidding and welcoming... although perhaps it was merely familiarity that made it so, Harry Potter mused to himself.

Today had been the day of the final Quidditch match of the year, Ravenclaw verses Gryffindor – and Harry's last game of Quidditch for the Gryffindor team, ever. It was early Spring of his final year, his NEWTs were hard upon him... and he had made a first-year mistake today that had left him in the hospital wing while his classmates were up in the common room celebrating the victory while he lay here in the hospital, the bones of his legs reconstituting themselves.

He never thought it would happen. Sure, he had been injured through the action of others, but not since his first year had he made a mistake on a broom that resulted in hurt. When he flew, he had a feeling of invincibility and freedom, and no matter what he did, his Firebolt had always brought him through. And today it was the same as always. He had gone after the snitch recklessly, with abandon and without thoughts for the consequences as his faithful broom had always brought him through. But today, almost as soon as the snitch had rested, fluttering, in his hand and he had jerked his broom out of its almost-vertical descent, he knew that he wouldn't be getting out of this one unhurt.

The impact, when it came, was almost soft. The world slowed, and then the broom dug into the pitch and sent him tumbling out of control. It seemed to take forever for him to hit the base of the Slytherin stand. He felt nothing but a rising tide of blackness.

He had awoken here to Madam Pomphrey's grim smile and the news that he would be in overnight... again. In _his_ bed, Madam Pomphrey had informed him with a wry smile and a twinkle in her eyes as she turned away to retire to her rooms for the night.

So now he lay here, the prickling pain of the Skele-Gro reforming the bones of his legs just one degree from driving him crazy from the frustration of being unable to move. He couldn't even study, since his books were all up in his room, and that only added to his frustration. Now, only a month out from the NEWT examinations, he could feel their weight pressing down upon him, and every spare moment he and his fellow seventh years had was spent studying.

The frustration of the pain in his legs and their enforced immobility, added to the sense of wasted time spent here in the wing and perhaps a vague sense of abandonment that Susan had not come to visit him, made him wrench his head back against the pillows. Holding his clenched fists against his eyes, he groaned and fought to keep from drumming his feet, an act he was certain would hurt like a royal bitch.

Suddenly he felt his attention pulled to the door. A lifetime a paranoia told him that somebody was about to effect a stealthy entry, and he smiled to himself. Perhaps it was Susan?

The door crept open, and he saw the vague shimmering that indicated a disillusionment spell. As the door closed itself once more, however, Harry felt a vague sense of wrongness. He was certain that the visitor _wasn't_ Susan. He reached for his wand, but he never quite made it. A sweet smell came, and his muscles fell limp.

Harry watched in horror, trying his hardest to scream for help, as spells were cast: An area silencing spell, locking charms for the outer door and Madam Pomphrey's office, and finally... Draco Malfoy shimmered into sight.

No, not Draco. It was Lucius!

The elder Malfoy's eyes were hungry as he advanced on the helpless Harry. They glittered hatefully as he looked down at him. Malfoy's wand pointed down between Harry's eyes.

'We meet again, Mr Potter,' he said, his tones jovial. Harry lay limp as he searched his mind, frantically looking for _anything_ that would help him. He could feel it, a certain _something_ within him that would help, but he could not reach it. Lucius Malfoy smiled at him, and continued politely, 'I thought I should give you the pleasure of knowing it was _I_ who won in the end. Goodbye, Mr Potter.' He paused a beat, then uttered, '_Avada Kedavra!_'

Harry watched helplessly as a terrible green light erupted from the end of the wand. It paused, gathering strength, and to his amazed gaze it appeared to pull streamers of energy in from the world around before launching itself from Lucius Malfoy's wand. It filled his vision, his world, and then he felt it ripping at his soul, tearing him loose from...  
  
.  
  
.

Dark. It was dark, and cold, and his head hurt like it was split open. He could not move very much at all. _Is this the afterlife? The next great adventure? If it is, then where are my mother, my father? Where are you, Sirius, you old dog?_

He could not help it. He wanted his mother, giver of warmth and love. He missed her so, and he could not control himself. Where was she? He cried out, hoping against hope that someone friendly would hear him. 'Mama?!' he cried...

Light, there was light, although it seemed very bright. He wanted to bring his hand up to shield his eyes, but he still could not move. Now the floor shuddered, massive footsteps that shook the world. A huge, dark shape loomed above him, and again he could not help it, he cried out in terror as a massive hand reached for him, lifted him up towards the massive creature's mouth, the enormous head looming over him, when the sound of the creature's voice gave him pause.

'There, there, little Harry, you'll be alright now, just you wait.'

It was Hagrid. But huge, larger than a giant, Hagrid on a scale so great that it staggered the mind just how large he had become.

He let go of the cloth he was clutching, not even aware that he had been grasping something.

The world moved as Hagrid carried him somewhere, and he became aware of other sounds around him. The almost musical thunking of timber and plaster as Hagrid stepped over it, dislodging it or kicking it out of the way. The night sounds, which explained why he felt cold. The sound of the approaching motorcycle. Hagrid stopped at that last, and Harry watched as a dark-clad rider brought a flying motorcycle in to a two-point landing nearby. The rider got off and stepped into the light from Hagrid's lantern. It was Sirius... a younger, healthy, worried-looking Sirius.

It was then that everything came together for Harry. It was Halloween, 1981, and he was fifteen months old.

The baby's wail split the night, ignored as the two men argued.


	2. Chapter 1

**Undo, Retry  
Chapter 1**

by Olafr -

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter and associated milieu, characters, and situations are owned by J.K. Rowling and her licensees. This is a work of fan fiction, produced solely for enjoyment. No infringement of rights is intended.

**Rating:** PG (so far)

**Last updated:** 30 August 2004.

**Author's Notes:** A glimpse at some of Harry's childhood.

########

The landing of the motorcycle jostled Harry to wakefulness. He was warm, snuggled against Hagrid's ribs, and for a long moment he thought he might drift off to sleep again. The rumbling of Hagrid's voice woke him for sure, however.

'...drifted off to sleep around Bristol,' the big man was saying.

_No!_ Harry thought to himself. _No, you're not leaving me with **them**!_ 'No!' he tried to shout, but all that came out was a gurgle that became a loud wail as Harry's frustration at being unable to make himself understood overtook him.

'Oh, dear,' said McGonagall, and almost immediately thereafter Harry felt a calm lassitude overcome him.

'It would not do to have young Harry wake the neighbourhood before he had been accepted into the home of his only blood relation.' _That was Albus Dumbledore_, mused Harry to himself with a kind of calm acceptance. _Ruthless old bastard, just like at school_. With that he felt himself drift off into sleep once more, unable to help himself.

########

_Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes – Ministry of Magic_

_Office of Accidental Magic Reversal_

_December 2, 1985  
  
_

_To: Professor Minerva McGonagall_

_Deputy Headmistress, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry  
  
_

_In regard to: Mr Harry Potter, Ward of Hogwarts_

_  
Dear Professor McGonagall,_

_I wish to organise a meeting at your earliest convenience to discuss Mr Harry Potter. We have been forced to visit Mr Potter's home at 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey, on no less than ten occasions in the last two months to reverse a series of accidental magic events of progressively increasing significance._

_Further, the investigating officers attending Mr Potter's home recently report that Mr. Potter is suffering under very poor living conditions and appears to be the subject of abuse by the other members of his foster family, who are magiphobic to an extraordinary degree._

_It is our opinion that Mr Potter cannot continue to live at his current residence. I urge you to give this your most urgent attention, as it would be most regrettable if one of my officers were to make Mr Potter's deplorable situation public because they felt that he had been abandoned by those who owe him a Duty of Care._

_In anticipation of your prompt reply, I remain,_

_Your servant,_

_Dennis Huggley_

_Head, Office of Accidental Magic Reversal  
_

_########  
_

Harry woke to the sound of his uncle shouting and leaped against the far wall of the cupboard beneath the stairs. 'WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?!' his uncle bellowed. Hope leaped in his chest – perhaps Dumbledore was going to take him away from here at last?

It was Professor Dumbledore's voice that answered. 'I am here to check on Harry Potter. Is he about?'

'WHY YOU--' Vernon's voice cut off suddenly.

Harry sucked his breath in. He had been beginning to lose hope. After years of trying, he had managed to begin to grasp his magic. Perhaps it had been desperation: A few months ago, the Dursleys had started to give him chores to do. Shortly thereafter he had received his first punishment, a dose of Uncle Vernon's belt to his backside, when he had dropped a frypan full of eggs onto the kitchen floor when it proved too heavy for him to grasp.

Unlike the first time he had gone through this, however, Harry had a near-adult perspective and the memory of that first time. He found it very difficult to control his emotions, and certain things did not come easily to him, but still he had his knowledge and a memory of how he would have handled this situation last time.

So he had evolved a plan. He would force Dumbledore to remove him from this place by making it untenable to keep him here. And the only way he had of doing that was magic of the 'accidental' kind.

His first successful 'accidental' magic was to charm Dudley's hair and skin a putrescent green. Then he had done the same to Vernon. Then Uncle Vernon's belt had become a liquorice strap just as it was about to land on his naked buttocks. (That last had been a mistake, as it had still hurt, and Vernon had used his fists for the first time, ranting about him being a _freak_.)

The thing is, his 'accidental' magic never just faded away so that it could be explained away as an muggle accident. He had deliberately exerted every effort to make the things he did permanent, to force the Ministry to visit to reverse them. He thought that the reason things had gone so badly for him last time was that he had been so thoroughly out of sight. By forcing the Ministry to come, perhaps he could force them to move him elsewhere.

Anywhere.

Well, maybe not with the Malfoys. And he hadn't quite figured out how the issue of the blood protection would be dealt with. If he was moved away from his Aunt, would he still have the protection that had resulted in the Voldemort-imbued Quirrel's disintegration at the end of first year?

He had no answer for this question. But frankly, he didn't care. It had become clear to him after Susan Bones had befriend him over the summer before his seventh year that he had been hopelessly stunted by his upbringing. She had talked to him, visited him (something Ron, Ginny, and Hermione had never bothered to do), and eventually come to love him.

His musing was interrupted by the opening of his cupboard door. A lighted wand poked in, lighting the small space, and Harry was gratified to see Professor McGonagall poke her head into the space. Her expression transformed from wary caution to shock as he watched. 'Mister Potter?' she asked weakly. He nodded in reply, but controlled his expression. He wasn't supposed to know her.

'Who are you?' he asked cautiously, keeping his distance from her. Falling into old, old habits, he felt himself slipping along the wall away from the door, preparing to try and hide under the stair treads themselves. He watched her expression move from shock into dismay as he began to edge away from her, and then into a righteous anger.

'Please wait just a moment,' she said gently with a plastic smile upon her face before she pulled her head out of the closet. Harry settled down to listen to the fallout.

'Vernon Dursley!' said McGonagall in her sternest tone. 'I have never, in all my life, seen such a vile display!'

'Don't blame me,' said Vernon, his voice reflecting his surprise but warmth at what he felt was an unexpected ally, 'it's all that freak boy's fault!'

'_Silencio!_ It is _you_ who are vile, Vernon Dursley!' replied Professor McGonagall.

'Ah, Petunia,' came Professor Dumbledore's voice. 'I am _most_ disappointed with you.'

'Wh-what are you talking about?' Aunt Petunia started hesitantly. Then, her voice gaining strength, she continued, 'And who are you, anyway? How dare you burst into my home!'

'I am Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.' There was a gasp, and Harry smiled at Aunt Petunia's reaction. Dumbledore went on, 'I am here to discuss with you why it is that Harry feels so threatened that he is performing accidental magic at an unprecedented rate, and why it is that the corrective officers sent to put things to rights after those episodes found it necessary to consider reporting you to the Child Protection Services for abuse.'

'I don't know _what_ you're talking about,' blustered Aunt Petunia, although her voice trembled unconvincingly.

For a long time there was silence, although _something_ tingled on Harry's nerves. For a time it stopped, then started again. He began to wonder what Dumbledore was doing. If _felt_ like magic, but not his... was Dumbledore perhaps using _Legilimens_ on the Dursleys?

Eventually the feeling stopped again, and there came a deep sigh.

'What is it, Albus?' asked McGonagall.

'I was pondering what to do, Minerva. Alas, you were quite right when you said that they were the very _worst_ sort of muggle. And yet my reasons for placing Harry here remain as valid now as then.'

'_I_ would be happy to take him, Albus. But... you think that he is not in fact dead, then?'

'I am quite certain of it, Minerva.'

Harry's skin began to crawl as he realised that it was _very_ unlikely that they had forgotten he was there, and his mind leaped ahead to the only possible conclusion: They would leave him here after doing something to the Dursleys. Frantically, he began gathering his tenuous hold on his magic, desperate to find a way to cast a shield or _anything_ to prevent what he _knew_ was about to happen.

'Oh, well, I do not like to do this, Minerva, but I cannot see that I have any choice.'

'Surely there is some alternative, Albus? I mean, what you are proposing...'

'I regret the necessity but, as I said, I cannot see an alternative.'

'No, Albus! The ends do _not_ justify the means!'

'I'm sorry, Minerva. _Petrificus Totalis!_ Now, Petunia and Vernon... _Obliviate!_ Harry Potter is the orphaned son of Petunia's beloved sister, Lily. You love Harry as though he were your own son. _Mobilicorpus!_' For a time there was silence, then footsteps as Dumbledore returned. '_Obliviate!_ Minerva, we managed to persuade the Dursleys to take a kinder view of their nephew, Harry.'

And then Dumbledore was leaning into the cupboard under the stairs. Desperately, Harry shouted in his mind, _Help me, Fawkes!_ even as Dumbledore said with genuine regret in his tone, 'I pray that you understand one day what I am about to do, Harry. _Obliviate!_'

########

An ethereal, heavenly song woke Harry. He opened his eyes to see a bird with brilliant, gold and red plumage somewhat like a red-coloured peacock standing over him, one black eye regarding him solemnly. A pearly tear was gathering in the bird's eye, and before Harry could do anything to prevent it, the drop fell warmly onto his eyeball.

_Ow_._ That hurt._

Trying to wipe the icky bird stuff out of his eye, Harry found he could not move. The bird's song intensified, and he found himself unable to worry about the fact; instead he concentrated on the rather odd feel of the tears as they crept around his eyeballs. It almost felt as though they were going all the way into his head!

And then he remembered, but still he could not move. _Fawkes came when I called him!_ he marvelled. Fawkes changed eyes, and began to spill tears once again, this time into his left eye.

Eventually the tears and birdsong stopped and Fawkes stood back. Harry found himself once more able to move once again, so he sat up and hesitantly held out a hand to the phoenix. 'Thank you, Fawkes,' he said quietly but with feeling. 'Thank you very much indeed.'

Fawkes trilled in reply and gently rubbed his head lightly against Harry's hand. Then he stepped back and regarded Harry closely. For a time neither moved, staring into each other's eyes, but eventually Fawkes trilled a song both comforting and triumphant which warmed Harry's heart anew before the bird departed in a flash of fire.

A single, large feather drifted down in Fawkes' wake. A tail feather.

Hurriedly, Harry grabbed it, knowing what it meant. He carefully wrapped it in a scrap of cloth and hid it that the very base of the stairs, where only he could reach. He had only to get a likely stick of wood and a few simple tools and he could make his own wand! One not registered with the Ministry!

_Then_ he'd see how the Dursleys treated him.

########

Making a wand turned out to be surprisingly simple. He pinched a knife and a long drill bit from the rather extensive collection Uncle Vernon had in the shed which squatted against the back fence. It was the perfect one: Long, about twelve inches, and slim, perhaps three mils thick. He also grabbed a small old clamp from the bottom of a drawer that looked as though it had not been touched in years.

Why Uncle Vernon, who had not a handy bone in his body from what Harry could see, had such an extensive collection of tools in his shed was quite beyond Harry. He simply took advantage of the fact that Vernon was unlikely to miss what he had taken.

He also had extraordinary luck finding wand's base material. He had been allowed outside by Uncle Vernon, who now insisted that he be called 'father', and he had wandered over to see what the commotion at the Smith family's house, which was Number 17, was about. There was a truck and trailer, and two men with saws and gloves and such. The Smiths had a big old holly bush that was almost as tall as the house itself that they wanted getting rid of since Mrs Smith had pricked herself on it once too often.

So the tree removal specialists, for that was that they were, set about cutting down the lovely old holly tree piece by piece. Harry had asked them for a small piece of a particularly straight branch about fifteen inches long which he had promptly tucked into his trousers, hiding it.

It took Harry six days, between chores both inside and outside, to whittle the branch into a wand about twelve inches long and bore a hole through its entire length. Into the hole he slipped the phoenix feather and then he plugged the hole at each end with little bits of holly wood that were left over from his whittling. Some furniture wax that he normally used to polish the dining table and chairs gave the wand a warm, satin glow, a lovely light honey brown that he thought was quite beautiful.

Holding the finished wand in his hand, Harry regarded it contemplatively for a long time. He hoped that he had made it correctly. It had the same materials as his previous – or eventual, depending on how you looked at it – wand, it was a similar size, it even had the same general shape. But it did not feel alive in his hand. It felt like a stick of wood.

Harry hoped that was simply because his magic was not yet sufficiently developed to mate properly with the wand. He would simply have to try, and if he didn't succeed, he would try some of the projection techniques that he had learned about as part of his advanced training that would allow him to use any wand, even if it was not compatible.

Aunt Petunia's voice interrupted his contemplation, and he quickly tucked the wand beneath his mattress. For all that they now called required him to call them 'mother' and 'father', the Dursleys treated him as harshly as ever. Sometimes they called him 'son', but mostly they just called him _freak_.

########

Dennis Huggley was a small, spare man with sandy hair thinning on top and slightly watery eyes. His twill robes had a particularly anachronistic air to them, but they were well-kept and clean. He looked up to see Sandra McIntosh, head of one of his two reversal teams, walk into his office.

'Ah, Sanda, good morning. Time for our weekly update already?'

'Yes, sir. Here are my team's reports for this week.'

'Excellent. Thank you.' Sandra turned to go, but Dennis continued, 'Oh, by the way, has there been anything more from the Potter boy?'

Sandra turned again, vaguely surprised. 'No, sir. There's still quite a bit of activity, but it's all non-permanent and minor. Now that I think about it, it did change all of a sudden. Did you get something done?'

Dennis smiled warmly. 'Yes, I sent a threatening letter to his guardians and they appear to have sorted it all out.'

'Oh, good. Good. Will that be all, sir?'

'Yes, thank you, Sandra. You may go.'


	3. Chapter 2

**Undo, Retry  
Chapter 2**

by Olafr -

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter and associated milieu, characters, and situations are owned by J.K. Rowling and her licensees. This is a work of fan fiction, produced solely for enjoyment. No infringement of rights is intended.

**Rating:** PG (so far)

**Last updated:** 1 December 2004.

**Author's Notes:** An invitation to Hogwarts.

oOoOoOo

Under the warm sun and clear sky of a early summer's day, the houses of Privet Drive slumbered. All was quiet, except for Mr Jameson of Number 8, who was mowing his well-kept lawn with a push-mower.

In the cupboard under the stairs, Harry sat, contemplating his wand. Years of handling it had worn the sharp edges of his unskilled whilttling down into almost satin smoothness, and darkened the handle into a mellow tan. The body of the wand remained a the colour of light honey, however.

At least he had eventually made it work. It had taken him six months, and five clandestine visits to the local library to remind himself about meditation and visualisation techniques, but he had at last managed to use his wand to perform reliable, controllable magic. Although it was really only this year that he had managed to build up his power to anything like it had been before.

Before his trip back in time. Before the Universe had been reset. Or whatever damn thing had happened. Because things were different, this time. Tremendously different.

He certainly hadn't known about magic last time. Last time, the cupboard under the stairs hadn't been the size of the Gryffindor common room (and decorated like a merger between the dorm and the common room). Last time, he had been victimised, abused, and neglected. Last time, he had been a victim.

Now, though, he had been able to use his magic to cast a congeniality charm on all three Dursleys. He regretted the necessity – it was not really legal, and not really ethical either – but he knew what was coming, and he could not afford the distraction or the loss of time being downtrodden and victimised.

In retrospect, though, perhaps it had been a case of the end truly justifying the means. The four of them formed a happy family... well, kind of. But even if they weren't a loving family as such, things were at least shared around. Dudley was a little spoiled and indulged, but he wasn't fat, had a normal range of friends, and moreover got along okay with Harry even if they weren't exactly friends. Vernon was more successful than last time; his more congenial nature meant he made less enemies. And Petunia was the core of a Neighborhood Watch organisation, worked with the local Vicar, and was generally happy with her role in the community.

All of which meant that through one borderline-legal act, Harry had made the lives of his family much, much better. They were happier and more successful.

And most of all, Harry was properly fed and his achievement at school wasn't suppressed, and he wasn't the target of wandering gangs – in fact there weren't any gangs at all that he knew of. All in all, it was a much happier existence.

When they had gone to the zoo for Dudley's eleventh birthday just yesterday, they had had a wonderful time. Dudley had gone mad trying out his new camera, using up four rolls of film learning how to use the sophisticated SLR his father had bought him. The camera had been his main gift, with a book from Harry and two shirts from his mother. What a contrast to his previous life, if one could call it that.

Now, though, the day had come which Harry had been anticipating all these years. The day when his life would change. Today was the day when his invitation to Hogwarts would come.

'Harry! Lunch!' Aunt Petunia called. Getting up from the overstuffed sofa that he had been sitting in, Harry slipped his wand into his pocket and left the extraordinarily spacious cupboard under the stairs. As he crossed the floor of the magically-enlarged room, Harry mentally checked the disinterest ward which layered over the doorway. It was still holding up well, and wouldn't need renewing until he left for Hogwarts.

As he closed the small door with its slanted top, he saw that the mail had arrived. Smiling, he picked it up and sorted through it briefly. He smiled in gratification. It was here.

'The mail is here, Aunt Petunia,' said Harry. Putting the remainder of the mail down on the tabletop, Harry took the letter addressed to him and sat down before opening it.

'You can call me mum if you like, Harry,' said Petunia. 'Thanks for getting the mail.'

'What do you have there, Harry?' asked Vernon, looking up from his review of Dudley's photographs from yesterday. He had been going through them slowly with Dudley, discussing each one.

'A letter,' he said, putting on a puzzled voice. 'It's addressed to me.'

'Oh, really?' asked Petunia as she put down a plate of sandwiches in the centre of the table. 'Who's it from? Is it from that lovely girl, Wendy, maybe?' she continued in a teasing voice.

'Your guuurrl-friend!' taunted Dudley with a good-natured grin.

'No!' shouted Harry, embarrassed. He made a show of turning the letter over, looking at it. 'There's no postmark, and it's addressed to "The Cupboard Under The Stairs". I've never shown Wendy my room, so it can't be her.' He grinned to himself at his cleverness, even as the adult part of his mind groaned at the annoying precocity of the statement.

Harry watched out of the corner of his eye as Petunia and Vernon exchanged a meaningful glance.

'Harry,' said Vernon in his command voice, 'leave that for the moment and open it after lunch. Petunia and I would like to talk to you before you do.'

oOoOoOo

After lunch, Vernon and Petunia dispatched Dudley to visit one of his friends and sat down with Harry in the loungeroom. For a time there was a strained silence until Harry could finally restrain himself no longer.

'So... what's this about?' he asked. 'What's so special about this letter?' He gestured at the letter concerned, which sat, unopened, on the coffee table between them. 'Why can't I open it? It's addressed to me so it's my letter, isn't it?' He wound down at the sight of Petunia holding her hands up in a 'stop' motion.

'Nobody's saying you can't open the letter, Harry,' she said. 'It's just that I wanted you to wait untiil Dudley was gone. You see, even though the three of us know that you're a wizard, because your parents were, Dudley doesn't. And I'd prefer it if he didn't know, either.'

Harry stared at Aunt Petunia in understanding. He'd never said anything to them, and they'd never said anything to him, not since he settled down and stopped doing 'accidental' magic on them. He'd put the notice-me-not charm on the doorway to the cupboard under the stairs in anticipation of visitors, not because of Dudley, but it had unexpectedly served as well for that purpose.

'Oh,' he said at length. 'I think I see. So Dudley doesn't know? How can that be? Doesn't Dudley remember how things were before?'

Both Dursleys looked a little guilty. 'We told him he had imagined it,' said Petunia. She looked embarrassed, but also determined.

'When you were left here, Harry,' added Vernon, 'there was a note which said you were a wizard. That note also said that you were enrolled in Hogwarts and would be receiving a letter about now.'

'Oh,' said Harry. 'Good.' He looked at the envelope uncertainly, continuing to play his part. 'Only... what's Hogwarts?'

Vernon and Petunia shared a glance, and Petunia said, 'Why don't you open your letter and find out?'

Harry nodded and gathered the envelope to himself, cracked the wax seal and opened the letter. It was exactly the same as before. Paging through the equipment list, Harry decided to use this opportunity to get his equipment as soon as possible.

'It gives an equipment list here, and uniforms. We have to get them from a place called Diagon Alley in London. It's near...' and Harry paused to fake looking up the letter again, '...Charing Cross. Can we go?'

'Yes, of course. But we can't go today, it's a two hour drive to London, and besides, it's Sunday. Everything'll be closed,' said Uncle Vernon.

Harry was about to protest that wizard shopkeepers wouldn't let a little thing like Sunday Trading laws keep them from selling something, but kept his mouth shut just in time.

'This letter asks for a reply by Owl. Where do you think I could...?' Harry was now getting a little worried, fishing for a way to get to Diagon Alley.

'There's one sitting on my _car_!' Vernon said, somewhat annoyed.

'Oh, it'll be waiting for your reply,' said Petunia calmly. Vernon looked at her oddly, but Harry smiled and nodded.

'May I have some paper so I can write an acceptance, then, please?'

'It's something that should be done by the parents... or in this case, us, Harry. I'll do it,' said Petunia. Now both Harry and Vernon stared at her openly.

'Errr... Thank you,' said Harry at last.

'Was there nothing else?' prompted Petunia. 'Anything about a guide?'

Shocked more than surprised, Harry riffled through the sheets of parchment again. He found a short letter he hadn't seen before.

_Dear Mr Potter,_

_Hogwarts realises that it can be difficult for those not raised in the Wizarding world to come to grips with their new world at first. Therefore we offer orientations to students such as yourself, should you wish to avail yourself of them. This is highly recommended._

_Orientations will be held on Tuesday 30 July, Thursday 1 August, Tuesday 6 August, Thursday 8 August, and every day from 23-31 August this year. Orientations meet in the front lobby of Charing Cross Railway Station promptly at 10:00am._

_Please indicate in your acceptance letter whether you wish to avail yourself of an orientation, and if so, when._

_Sincerely,_

_Prof. M. McGonagall_

_Deputy Headmistress, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

Having read the note, Harry passed it over to Petunia without comment. After reading it she nodded. 'Good, I'll write that note now and send it off. I'll ask that you go on the first orientation since you're so keen, Harry.'

oOoOoOo

_Dear Professor McGonagall,_

_Harry Potter will be delighted to attend Hogwarts commencing this year. He has expressed great eagerness and asks to go on the first of the offered orientations._

_When we discussed this earlier this year, you said that Harry was left a trust fund by his parents to pay for his schooling, and that it would not necessary for me to attend the orientation. I wish to confirm that these arrangements are still in place._

_Yours,_

_Petunia Dursley_

oOoOoOo

_Dear Mrs Dursley,_

_As we discussed in March, Harry does indeed have a trust fund from his parents and will be given access to it during the orientation tour. This fund will pay for his tuition, fees, books, supplies, and spending money, so you will not have to worry about that._

_I also confirm that it will not be necessary for you to attend the orientation with Harry. If you put him on a train to Charing Cross, he will be met at the other end and returned directly home at the end of the day. He will purchase his school books and supplies during the day, so he will return home with a trunk which will need to be stored until school begins._

_Finally, just a reminder that Harry's maintenance stipend will halve during the months he is at Hogwarts since he will not need to be fed, housed, or clothed during that time. It will of course return to normal during the Summer months, when Harry will be at home with you._

_I remain in your service,_

_Prof M. McGonagall_

oOoOoOo

At 8:16am the following Tuesday, Harry watched as the doors closed on the train that was to take him to Charing Cross. Actually, it was a train bound for Waterloo, where he would change trains to finish the journey to Charing Cross. He should get there with about ten minutes to spare, according to Aunt Petunia.

The train was busy. Most of the people on the train wore business suits or other work clothing of one kind or another. Harry was lucky enough to get a seat, and he watched the suburbs flow past, gradually becoming denser and taller as they worked their way inwards from the outer suburban area of Little Whinging, which was actually almost a part of Greater London (but not quite, according to Uncle Vernon), towards the centre of the city. Interestingly, people began to get off as they came closer to the tall part of London, and although the train remained busy the character of the people on the train changed. Business suits and school children gave way to mothers going shopping and people on a hundred different errands. One rather staid-looking man nearby Harry read from a paperback book, ignoring the world around him as he sat, worlds away in his pinstripe suit with his leather briefcase perched upon his lap. Given that they would arrive at Waterloo somewhat after nine o'clock, Harry assumed that either the man was late, or perhaps his job was not very demanding.

After almost getting lost at Waterloo – it turned out that not only did he have to change trains, he had to change stations, something that involved a ten-minute walk – Harry made it to Charing Cross Station. He stepped out of the train and made his way down the stairs and found himself in a tunnel with Exit signs at each end. Taking a chance, he turned left and could see nobody recognisable. Retracing his steps, he went to the other side of the station and there, in the plaza, he saw a lady he recognised holding a sign which said, _Hogwarts_. It as Professor McGonagall. He made his way through the crowd to her without her noticing.

'Hello,' he said, 'I'm Harry Potter.'


	4. Chapter 3

**Undo, Retry  
Chapter 3**

by Olafr -

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter and associated milieu, characters, and situations are owned by J.K. Rowling and her licensees. This is a work of fan fiction, produced solely for enjoyment. No infringement of rights is intended.

**Rating:** PG (so far)

**Last updated:** 13 December 2004.

**Author's Notes:** Diagon Alley

oOoOoOo 

_After almost getting lost at Waterloo – it turned out that not only did he have to change trains, he had to change stations, something that involved a ten-minute walk – Harry made it to Charing Cross Station. He stepped out of the train and made his way down the stairs off the platform and found himself in a tunnel with Exit signs at each end. Taking a chance, he turned left and could see nobody recognisable. Retracing his steps, he went to the other side of the station and there, in the plaza, he saw a lady he recognised holding a sign which said, _Hogwarts_. It as Professor McGonagall. He made his way through the crowd to her without her noticing._

'_Hello,' he said, 'I'm Harry Potter.'_

oOoOoOo 

Minerva McGonagall looked around herself, trying to spot Harry in the milling crowd of near-rush proportions. The effort was futile, she knew; eleven-year-old children would be completely invisible in the crush of adults that clogged the main part of the station.

'Hello,' said a young but self-assured voice, 'I'm Harry Potter.'

Looking down, Minerva saw a miniature James Potter smiling up at her, right down to the thick, perennially-messy hair the colour of India ink. He was dressed comfortably in blue jeans, white sneakers, a dark red polo shirt, and a coffee-coloured, waist-length light jacket. The black strap of a daypack looped over one shoulder and he appeared to be both healthy and happy.

'Well! Mr Potter, I'm Professor Minerva McGonagall.' She put out her hand, which Harry duly shook. Her hand tingled, just a little, as they touched. She suppressed her surprise at the sensation, keeping her face professional.

'How do you do, Professor.'

'Mr Potter – Harry – I'm sure you have quite a few questions, but I it would be best if you were to hold onto them for a just a little while. I will be very happy to answer all your questions later, I assure you.'

Harry nodded, a slightly puzzled expression on his face, and Minerva smiled in gratitude. She then looked up to see two other people heading her way across the flow of the crowd – a mother and, judging by the gap in the crowd, her child. Looking down at Harry, who had not spotted the approaching pair due to his lower height, she said, 'Well, Mr Potter, it appears we'll be on our way shortly.' She looked up again, and smiled in welcome. 'Good day to you, Helen. And to you as well, Hermione.'

Surprised, Harry looked about, and finally spotted a very young-looking Hermione standing mostly behind her mother. She saw him looking, and smiled at him hesitantly. Harry felt his heart leap, a joyous frisson that one of the people he had missed most in the world was once again with him. He could not help the brilliant smile he gave as he stepped forward, holding out his right hand. 'Hello, I'm Harry,' he said. 'Harry Potter.' He was delighted when Hermione smiled back, somewhat hesitantly. She stepped forward and took his hand, squaring her shoulders and raising her chin unconsciously.

'I'm Hermione Granger,' she said clearly, in round, almost plummy tones, eloquent of elocution lessons. 'Charmed.'

'Well, now that we're all here, let's begin,' said McGonagall. 'We'll begin by going to the Leaky Cauldron, which is the main method of getting to Diagon Alley from the Muggle world. Inside the Leaky Cauldron we'll spend a little while going over some simple rules, and then we'll go on to Diagon Alley itself. So, if you'll follow me...?'

They walked from the station, down a block and then turned left and proceeded straight for a couple of blocks. As they walked, Helen Granger and Minerva McGonagall gravitated together, so Harry natually walked with Hermione. He very much wanted to talk to her, but he wasn't quite sure how to open the conversation. Eventually, Hermione surprised him by speaking in that forthright manner of hers.

'Your mother isn't joining us?' she said suddenly. Harry looked at her, his smile quelled, and shook his head.

'No. I live with my aunt and uncle. My parents were killed when I was one.'

Hermione looked taken aback, almost aghast. 'I'm sorry,' she said. Harry shook his head.

'That's okay. It's not like I remember them.' He looked up at Helen Granger's back. She was speaking at the moment, her features very similar to his memory of the older Hermione. 'Your mother seems nice,' he said, a little wistfully.

Hermione smiled at him, a little uncertain, then forged onwards fearlessly. 'Did you know you were magical before you received your letter?' she asked. Harry nodded.

'Yes. Well, I mean, I knew I could make things happen. My aunt and uncle aren't, though. Magical, I mean. How about you?'

'No, not really. I mean, there were accidents, and I used to get in trouble for... well, I never knew it was my fault, really. Mum and dad were ever so pleased to get the letter, really.'

Harry jerked in surprise. 'Why is that?' Surely Hermione's parents weren't like the Dursleys.... Hermione glanced at him.

'Oh, no, nothing like that. It was just... well, both my parents are dentists, you see, and they're used to there being a reason for everything. When the letter came, it meant there was a reason for all the odd things that had been happening. You know?' Harry nodded wordlessly, and Hermione plunged on. 'What about your... aunt and uncle, you said? Were they glad to get the letter?'

Harry gulped, and nodded. 'I suppose so,' he said. 'They never really said. It's not like they really like having me around. They just tolerate me, I guess.'

'Oh! They don't... um... they don't, do they?'

Shaking his head vigorously and putting up his hands defensively, Harry replied, 'No! No, at least not recently. Not since I learned to get it under control, anyway.'

Hermione stared at Harry. 'You learned how to get your magic under control?'

Harry nodded. 'Yeah. I made myself a wand, when I was six, you see. I'd been turning my uncle's hair green and skin blue, that kind of thing. It just came to me that perhaps if I had a wand it wouldn't get out of control and maybe I'd be able to do something useful rather than annoying them and making them punish me. So I made a wand and tried really hard, and--.'

'You say you have managed to bring your magic under your conscious control, Mr Potter?' put in Professor McGonagall. Harry ran into Mrs Granger and bounced off her hip, only just maintaining his balance. After he sorted himself out, Harry looked up to see the Professor looking down at him, greatly surprised.

'Yes, Professor.'

'Did anyone give you any books on magic, or that kind of thing?'

'No, Professor,' said Harry.

'You said you had made yourself a wand?'

'Yes, Professor.' He went to get it out, but Professor McGonagall held out her hand in a 'keep it' gesture.

'Never mind, Harry,' she said, now in a more kindy voice. 'We were going to have to stop in a Ollivander's anyway, but I can see that now we will have something to do there other than simply purchasing wands.' With that she turned and continued leading the way.

When they were walking again, Hermione asked, 'Can you show me how?'

Harry nodded, smiling again. 'I'd be glad to.'

'Good. I really want to learn everything I can. I mean, it's really not fair. Kids who grow up with wizard parents must know ever so much by the time they go to Hogwarts.'

'I'm sure you're right. Let's read up on it together?' Harry half-asked, tentatively trying to build a relationship with his once best friend.

At that moment Professor McGonagall stopped once again, this time in front of a dingy, run-down pub. The windows were painted over and an old, blackened sign proclaimed _The Leaky Cauldron_.

'Harry, Hermione, take a good look around so you remember where this is. Non-magical people can't see the Leaky Cauldron, so Hermione, you will have to lead your parents to the door whenever they wish to bring you here. Once they are inside they will have no difficulty, however.'

Following her instructions, Harry and Hermione looked around, memorising the surrounding shops. Then, without another word, Professor McGonagall opened the door and led the way inside, tugging Helen Granger, who had her eyes closed, along behind her. The children followed her, and Harry allowed the heavy wooden door to thud closed behind him.

Inside, the Leaky Cauldron was very old-fashioned. It was dim and there was a faint overtone of smoke and beer, although the smell was not overpowering as it could be in Muggle pubs. Even at this time of the morning there were a number of patrons sitting at tables, either huddled in conversation or just waiting. Harry brushed his hair forward over his scar, hoping to avoid the hullabaloo that had eventuated last time.

'Good morning, Professor,' called the bartender. 'Another year already?'

Professor McGonagall smiled tolerantly. 'Yes, that's right, Tom. Is the room ready?'

'Yes, just as always. You know the way.'

'Thank you, Tom.'

Conversations had quieted during the half-shouted conversation, and now that the attention of the patrons had been captured, Harry tensed, waiting for the inevitable to occur.

'Bless my soul, it's Harry Potter!' rang out a clear, contralto voice. Harry winced internally. Trust Doris Crockford not to miss a trick. Playing his part, Harry looked around wildly, settling on a hunch-backed old crone who moved surprisingly spryly. She held out a hand in greeting. 'Doris Crockford, Mr Potter. It's a real pleasure to meet you.' Harry shook her hand numbly, then she was replaced by another person, a grizzled old man with muttonchop whiskers.

'Daedalus Diggle, Mr Potter. It's an honour.' Again Harry shook hands, this time looking up to Professor McGonagall in near-panic that was not totally faked.

'That will be quite enough!' rang out McGonagall's voice. 'Mr Potter has been raised by his Muggle relatives, since he lost his parents at a very young age as you no doubt all know. He therefore knows nothing of the Wizarding world, so please allow me to familiarise Mr Potter with our world before you congratulate him for something he no doubt does not remember!'

The silence that followed that outburst was absolute, and Professor McGonagall gathered up Harry and Hermione and led them into a back room. He tried not to stare at the pink tinge that had blossomed on the Professor's cheeks as they trooped down the passageway. As the door closed behind them, Harry heard the buzz of conversation resume with a slightly shocked overtone.

The room was small, with a table and six chairs. A small fireplace sat in the corner, a fire curtain drawn tightly over its maw and the tools stacked neatly to one side. The fire would likely not be lit again until October.

'Please, take a seat,' said McGonagall with a sigh. Drawing her wand, she conjured a blackboard on the wall opposite the fireplace, near one end of the table, and transfigured her clothing back into her more normal robes. From within her robes, she drew out a galleon, a sickle, and a knut, plus an envelope which Harry suspected contained his key. Pacing these, a photograph, and a copy of the Daily Prophet on the table, she stood by the blackboard, took a deep breath, and began.

oOoOoOo 

The doors to Gringott's were as imposing as ever. Harry re-read those words carved thereupon, glancing at Hermione as he finished. She raised her eyebrows at him. McGonagall observed their exchange and said, 'The Goblins do not take kindly to robbers and the like. There has never been a successful theft in the history of the bank.' She turned and led the way into the bank.

Inside, Harry allowed himself to gawk at the grandness of the marble-lined hall and the Victorian arrangement of desks. Hermione also gawked, but Helen Granger looked around with a frown on her face.

'You should not expect computers, Helen; they do not work in the presence of large amounts of magic. This system works well once you get to know your account keeper.' She paused, then asked, 'Do you think you will want to open an account? You don't have to; there is also a desk for exchange.'

'I think we'd prefer not to open an account for the time being,' said Helen.

'Very well. Well, let's get Harry sorted out first, then I will take you to the exchange desk.'

Harry decided it was time to pipe up. 'Excuse me, but what do you mean? Do I have an account here?'

McGonagall smiled down at him. 'Yes, Harry, you do. Your mother and father left you everything, of course. You will inherit the family holdings when you turn seventeen, but until then you have a vault which contains money to pay for your books and clothes and so on until you finish school. I think you'll find you have more than sufficient spending money.' She dug out the envelope he had seen earlier and handed it to him. 'This is the key to that vault. Come with me.'

Harry went with Professor McGonagall to the same desk as Hagrid had taken him to that time when he had rescued him from the Dursleys. A moment's conversation, and a goblin named Griphook was ordered to conduct him to his vault. Professor McGonagall turned to take the Grangers to the exchange desk, when Harry interrupted.

'Hermione, would you like to come with us? I've got a feeling this might be interesting.'

Helen Granger quickly looked to McGonagall, who nodded. 'You can go if you want, dear,' she said.

'Thanks, mum!' said Hermione with a smile. 'I'd love to go!'

And so it was that Griphook conducted the two children to the rather plain cart which was suspended between rails over an apparently infinite depth. Hermione made the mistake of looking down and grabbed Harry spasmodically, even more so when they started and the cart took off like a demented roller-coaster. It was several minutes before they pulled to a stop by a stone ledge. Griphook got out.

'Lamp, please,' he said. Harry unhooked the lamp from its holder, and Griphook turned it to illuminate a massive door, roughly carved in no particular pattern that Harry could recognise. 'Key, please,' prompted Griphook, and Harry handed over his key. Moments later the door eased open, and somehow the scant lamplight was multiplied as the contents of the vault were exposed in all their glittering glory.

'Wow,' breathed Hermione.

'Yeah,' added Harry. Then, stepping forward, he looked around and attempted to estimate the vault's holdings. Leaning down to scoop some coins into a bag that Professor McGonagall had given him, Harry asked, 'Mr Griphook, how do I find out how much is in this vault?'

'You ask your teller. But it appears as though there's approximately thirty thousand galleons here.'

'That's all I wanted to know. Thank you.' Finished filling his bag, Harry hooked it over his belt in the way the Professor had shown him, and looked around once again. There was nothing else in here, just money. He took Hermione's hand and led the way back to the cart.

'You're rich,' said Hermione as they waited for Griphook to lock the vault once more. She looked at him carefully.

Harry shook his head in pretended amazement. 'It's just...' He caught her look, then hurriedly added, 'I mean, I didn't mean to show off, I just thought, um.' He looked at his feet, which were perched on boards, and between which he could see into the infinite darkness beneath them. 'I'm sorry, Hermione, you probably think I'm a prat.'

She shook her head, smiling. 'Of course not, Harry. Although I'm not particularly looking forward to the ride back.' She glanced at Griphook who handed Harry his key and reboarded the cart. 'Can this thing go any slower?'

'One speed only,' said Griphook with what Harry had learned was an amused grin.

'Don't worry, Hermione, you can hang onto me if you like. Besides, I'm sure there must be something that keeps us from falling out no matter what. You can't have customers falling to their deaths. It would be bad for business.'

With that, the cart launched into motion with what Harry thought was a rather unnecessary lurch, and Harry grinned at Griphook as Hermione clutched his arm convulsively.

oOoOoOo 

It was mid-afternoon by the time they got to Ollivander's. They had gone first to a luggage shop, where Harry had discovered that he could use his key directly to transfer amounts of money inconvenient to carry directly to the shopkeeper's account, and had therefore purchased a rather fancy nine-compartment trunk which just happened to look like it had only a single compartment. It had cost over seven hundred Galleons, but Harry knew that the cost was well worth it as it had built-in charms to prevent it getting too heavy no matter how much was stored within, even a whole library's worth of books and a house's worth of furniture. It also could be opened only by those whom Harry allowed, and had an exotic self-shrinking command. Mrs Granger had bought Hermione a standard student's trunk, but when Hermione had worried about how she would be able to fit the books she wanted to bring, Harry had promised space in his trunk if she needed it for any reason. A grateful Helen Granger and Hermione Granger had made him feel rather special.

After that, they had gone to Madam Malkin's, two different pet stores (including Eyelops, where Harry had grabbed Hedwig again), the apothecary for their potion supplies, and many others. After revisiting Madam Malkin's to pick up their uniforms, they had then spent far too much time in Flourish and Blotts buying their books. The set texts had taken no time at all to find, but both Harry and Hermione insisted on browsing the whole bookstore. Harry made notes of books he wanted, and upon seeing him do so Hermione started doing the same. He whispered to her that he would set up an owl order account so they could get books even while they were in Hogwarts. Hermione had snickered consipiratorially with him, and had distracted the two adult females while Harry set up the account with the clerk.

Now, it was time for the final step – acquiring their wands from Ollivander. McGonagall led the way and opened the door for them, gesturing for the children to enter first.

Stepping into the shop, Harry felt magic crawling over him like ants crawling over his skin. He flinched involuntarily, but bravely stepped forward to allow Hermione to follow him. Moving forward into the shop, he could feel Ollivander's presence. He was standing disillusioned behind his counter.

The bell rang as the door closed, and Ollivander appeared. His silver eyes stared at Harry in shocked amazement, flicked to Hermione behind him, then back to Harry.

'Well, well, well, who do we have here. If I'm not mistaken... Miss Hermione Granger, and Mr Harry Potter.' His eyes tracked over Harry and over to Hermione, wandering back and forth several times. 'Miss Granger, I see that you are the first born of your line. Would you please step forward? Which hand is to be your wand hand?'

Stepping forward past Harry, Hermione ceased her fascinated study of the endless number of boxed wands and presented herself much as she had to Harry earlier that day. 'I am right handed,' she said, once again in her plummiest tones. Harry realised then how much she had allowed her speech to drift back to a normal pattern as she had become more comfortable with him. The thought warmed him.

'Right-handed? Good, good, now please hold still while I measure you.'

Harry watched as the tape measured Hermione extensively before dropping to the floor. Ollivander had to try seven wands before a good match was found, but Hermione pronounced herself happy (actually, she was both amazed and dumbfounded at the feeling of the wand in her hand, and she let them all know so in unambiguous fashion).

Eventually, however, Ollivander's attention was fixed upon Harry. 'Well, now, Mr Potter. I can see that _you_ are going to be something of a challenge.'

Professor McGonagall stepped forward. 'Before you begin, Master Ollivander, you should know that Harry made himself a wand to help bring his accidental magic under control.'

Ollivander, who had looked away from Harry while McGonagall was talking, now fixed his gaze back to the young-old boy. His silver gaze, shocking in its intensity, pinned him to the floor. Eventually the old man looked back to McGonagall.

'I can see no sign of a wand on him. His aura does make it difficult to see, however, so I could be mistaken.' Returning his attention to Harry, he asked, 'May I see this wand, Mr Potter?'

Harry slipped the wand out of the forearm holster he had improvised some time ago, and was now as much a part of his wardrobe as his underwear. Ollivander hesitated, then took it with one hand. Holding it up to the light, he stared at it for a long moment before fixing Harry with his gaze. 'How did you make this?' he asked, his voice softer than usual.

'A phoenix visited me and cried in my eyes after a visit to my aunt's house by Dumbledore,' said Harry neutrally. He ignored the gasp from McGonagall and continued, 'He left a feather behind when he left. I'd been having a lot of trouble with accidentally turning people colours and things; the Dursleys were abusing me. I had to do something. The feather felt kind of tingly, and I felt it drawing something from my hand, so I decided that if I could do magic, maybe I should have a magic wand. So I borrowed a knife and a long drill bit from my uncle's workshop and found a stick that felt right, carved the stick so it had the right shape and used the drill to bore a hole down the middle. I put the feather into the hole and filled the hole with scraps from the carving.' He looked at the wand in Ollivander's hand and took a breath before continuing.

'It took me a really long time to be able to use the wand, though. It didn't feel like the feather at all, really; just a stick of wood. But I kept trying and eventually I was able to get it to do things.' He shrugged, frowning in confusion – not at the only partly-true story he had told, but why it had taken so long for the wand to start obeying him. 'At least I stopped turning people's skin green.'

He looked up to see Ollivander exchanging what he could only class as a Significant Look with McGonagall. The Professor knelt down so that she could look him in the eye and put one hand on Harry's shoulder. 'Did you say that the Dursleys abused you? What did you mean by that?'

Harry shrugged disingenuously, although inside he was leaping with glee at the thought of rather belated revenge on his relatives. 'They'd lock me in the cupboard, not feed me, Uncle Vernon would hit me with the belt. But they stopped once you and that man Dumbledore visited.'

McGonagall's eyes went wide in shock, but she quickly schooled her expression back to neutrality. 'I see. Well, I'm glad that it stopped as a result of our visit, Harry. So things have been better, then?'

'Sure. They keep asking me to call them mum and dad, but it feels odd so I won't. Dudders and I get on okay, though we're not really friends. I'm not hungry any more. And once I managed to get that stupid wand to work, I was able to grow the cupboard and change things into furniture. I've got a really neat room, actually.'

'The cupboard...?'

'The cupboard under the stairs. Although it's kinda the biggest room in the house, now,' he said with a shy smile. He saw something pass across McGonagall's face but it was lost in a look of astonishment she shared with Ollivander. She stood up once more and smiled down at him.

'Well, Mr Potter, I knew when I greeted you at the train station that you were something extraordinary, but you surprise me greatly even so.' She looked to Ollivander. 'Mr Ollivander, can you tell Harry why he had difficulty with his wand? It wasn't just a case of hist magical core not yet being ready to connect with a wand, was it?'

Ollivander shook his head. 'No, not at all. It is two things. Firstly, young Mr Potter is not a wandmaker and does not know of the charms that are used to promote the conductivity of a wand. But more importantly, Mr Potter, were the tools made of steel, as most Muggle tools are?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Then that is the second reason. Cold iron prohibits magic. Although steel is not cold iron, it is sufficiently similar that it interferes with delicate magical devices such as this wand you made. You did not sand the wand, did you?'

'What's that?' asked Harry, feigning ignorance.

'I thought not. Well, Mr Potter, the steel tools effectively put an anti-magic coating on the wand wherever they cut it. While you could have used bronze or stone tools, such tools are not available in the Muggle world. So by using the knife to shape the wand, and the drill to hollow it out, there were two layers of a mild anti-magic coating between you and the feather. So not only were you trying to use a wand when normally you would be too young to do so, and not only did that wand lack the normal magical treatments which make it much, much more efficient than the simple combination of its materials, but you had to fight through the effect of the iron tools as well.'

Understanding came to Harry, and he had to fight to keep his expression to only what he believed was appropriate. 'Oh,' he said. 'Well, I guess I need a new wand, then?'

Ollivander nodded. 'Yes, you do. But there is a problem. You have been using this wand, flawed as it is, for several years now?'

'Yes, sir. Since I was seven.'

'Your magical channels have been set, then, to use the materials of this wand, and yet they have not, since it is not a true wand. I do have a wand made of holly wood with a feather from... yes, I believe it is the same bird that donated this one to you. But I wonder...' He looked thoughtful for a long moment, and Harry could almost feel the tension in the air as the old man thought. 'Yes, I think... just a moment.' With that he slipped behind the counter once more and stepped back amongst the ceiling-high shelves. His long fingers flicked over the jumbled ends of the boxes stacked haphazardly therein, and sunlight flooding in from high windows at the rear of the shop made the dust that rose from the boxes sparkle brightly. Then, with an 'Ah!' of triumph, Ollivander drew out one particular box and brought it reverently to the counter. He opened the box and lifted out the dark, polished wand that lay within. 'Take this and tell me what you feel,' he said.

Harry took the wand by its grip and waited for the rush of light and power through his being that he remembered so well from he previous visit to Ollivander's. But it did not happen that way; the flow felt choked, wrong. Frowning, he said, 'It feels warm, but rather odd. It's not very comfortable. Do you know what I mean?'

Ollivander nodded. 'As I thought. Well, Mr Potter, needs must! Please stand back a little, and do not interrupt me.'

A little nervous, Harry backed up until he bumped into Hermione. Something made him grab her hand as she looked over his shoulder, both children riveted as they watched Ollivander worked.

Stepping back from the bench, Ollivander drew his own wand and a moment later the door locked and blinds dropped with a noisy clatter. Then a shimmering shield appeared over the workbench and both Harry's wand and the new wand levitated into its centre. Moving very precisely, Ollivander made Harry's old wand split lengthways in half, releasing the feather within. Allowing the old wand to drop to the counter, he did something that made it rest against the new wand. Something encapsulated the old feather in a glowing, golden cylinder of light, as narrow as a pencil lead. For a long moment nothing appeared to change, and Harry wondered what was going happen next, but then the glowing cylinder sank into the surface of the new wand. Stunned, Harry glanced at Ollivander and was shocked to see that his silver eyes were positively glowing and that sweat stood trembling on his brow.

Then, suddenly, it was done. With a giant explosion of breath, Ollivander slumped down, catching himself on the counter with his hands and breathing deeply. The shield disappeared and wand fell into the box with an odd sort of subdued clatter. Harry and Hermione exchanged glances, knowing that they had seen something truly extraordinary.

Looking back at Ollivander, Harry was that he was now standing upright, looking as cool and unflappable as when he had entered the shop. He picked up the wand and offered it to Harry with a smile. 'Well, Mr Potter, why don't you try it this time?'

Nervously, Harry reached forward to take the wand. For a long moment, he could not make himself close his hand, but gathering his Gryffindor courage, he made himself grasp the wand firmly.

This time, he felt the light. This time, he felt the warmth and power that rushed through him like a river, making him feel rather like a fire hose – limp canvas that nevertheless contained a surging torrent under pressure. 

Then the moment passed. For a long moment he stared at the wand, memorising its shape anew. But something made him look up and he saw Ollivander rubbing his eyes. Looking around, McGonagall was smiling at him broadly and Mrs Granger was staring in undiluted awe (although he felt that might be more from Ollivander's display than his own).

'It feels wonderful, sir,' he said. 'How much do I owe you?'

Ollivander glanced to McGonagall, who nodded slightly. 'Well, then,' he said. 'I fear I must charge you a little more than the usual fee, Mr Potter. That will be twenty galleons, and may I say that I think we can expect great things from _you_, Mr Potter, great things. However, listen well to me.

'You must never even hint to others that your wand has _two_ phoenix feathers. It would be very bad for both you and I if it were to become known. They cannot be discovered through chance, since they are now merged and appear as one. So you must keep this secret for both our sakes.'

Harry frowned. 'Of course, sir, if you say so. But, why? What is so terrible?'

'It is against the law, Mr Potter. It is as simple as that,' said Professor McGonagall. 'You will no doubt learn why in your History of Magic class some time in the latter half of your school career at Hogwarts, but for now, simply accept that this must remain a secret from everyone. Do you swear to keep this secret, to keep it safe?'

Gulping, Harry recognised a formal oath. 'I swear.'

'Miss Granger?'

'I swear,' she said. Her hand, still grasped in Harry's left, squeezed his briefly in reassurance.

'Dr Granger, I regret the necessity, but do you also swear?'

'I swear,' said Helen Granger.

'I swear,' said Ollivander unprompted.

'And I also swear,' said McGonagall, finishing the oath, Harry knew. Suddenly she smiled and looked to the others. 'Well then, let us away. I feel I need a cup of tea; may I invite you to the Leaky Cauldron for a cup before we finish for the day, Helen?'

All but forgotten in the aftermath of the scene at Ollivander's, Harry and Hermione followed the two adults back to the Leaky Cauldron, their hands still joined.


	5. Chapter 4

Undo, Retry  
Chapter 4

by Olafr - Harry Potter and associated milieu, characters, and situations are owned by J.K. Rowling and her licensees. This is a work of fan fiction, produced solely for enjoyment. No infringement of rights is intended.

**Rating:** PG (so far)

**Last updated:** 26 March 2005.

**Author's Notes:** Harry gets sprung bad. (Caught red-handed.)

oOoOoOo

_All but forgotten in the aftermath of the scene at Ollivander's, Harry and Hermione followed the two adults back to the Leaky Cauldron, their hands still joined._

oOoOoOo

Harry Potter was exhausted by the time he returned home from Diagon Alley. Having braved the train system on his own for the first time that morning, the return journey held few fears for Harry, even the change of stations needed at Waterloo. Still, it was stressful, as the trains were even busier than they had been that morning, and he had to stand for most of the way home.

Mostly, however, he was exhausted because of nervous anticipation. At the Leaky Cauldron, he and Hermione had discovered that they lived quite close to the Wimbledon train station, so they had promptly made plans for the two of them to visit each other over the remainder of the summer. At that point, however, Mrs Granger had stepped in and told them that she and Harry's Aunt Petunia should meet first. Unable to think of a way of dissuading her, Harry had given her the Dursley's telephone number

Now, arriving at Number 4, Privet Drive after walking home the mile and a half from the train station, Harry let himself in. Having closed the door quietly, he almost jumped in surprise to discover Aunt Petunia standing at the entrance to the kitchen like an evil gorgon, arms crossed and frowning deeply at him.

"I had a call from a Mrs Granger earlier," she said sternly. "It seems you made a friend when you were at the orientation."

Uncertain at the conflicting signals Aunt Petunia was sending, Harry just looked up at her. "That's right," he replied. "Hermione. Her parents are dentists, I think."

Petunia looked at Harry oddly. For a moment, he had sounded almost adult, even more so than usual. "The Grangers live not far from the train line you took today. If I allow you to visit them, do you think you can keep yourself out of trouble?"

"Yes, Aunt Petunia."

"Good. Then you may visit whenever you wish, provided you always let me know where you are. However, you may not invite the Grangers here without first discussing it with myself and Vernon. Am I quite clear?"

"Yes, Aunt Petunia. Thank you."

"Mrs Granger said that you may visit tomorrow if you wish, and she can meet you at the train station as long as you get there by half past eight. Apparently Hermione is eager to begin reviewing the school textbooks."

A smile broke out on Harry's face, and Petunia felt herself lifted a little by its brightness and simplicity despite the boy's unnatural powers. "Yes, please!" he said.

"Good. You will need to catch the seven-forty-six train tomorrow morning." Petunia turned to call Helen Granger back. She was happy that the boy, her foster son, had made a friend – he would be leaving all his friends from school behind. And besides, it would keep him out of the house most of the time so there would be less chance he could infect Dudley with his powers or knowledge or his occasional weird _otherness_.

The boy, for all that he was like a son to her, was even stranger than her sister had been. She was only glad that Dudley had not shown any sign of that thrice-damned, eternally-cursed _magic_.

oOoOoOo

Harry Potter stretched out in the couch which sat in front of the fireplace in his somewhat expanded and redecorated cupboard beneath the stairs. It had been this way ever since he had finally managed to get coherent and decently-powerful magic out of his old wand. But now...

But now, what? He held up his new wand before his eyes, looking it over. It was his old wand, his original wand from before his return, that was certain. And yet, it was not. When he held this wand, he felt a warmth, a _connection_ that he had never felt before, either in this life or in his memory of the last. He could _feel_ magic, as though he stood before an enormous wall of water barely restrained, trembling to be released. He remembered the feeling at Olliavander's, the feeling of a flood torrent just barely contained. Now that he thought of it, he also remembered Ollivander himself squinting and blinking, as though a bright light had been shone into his eyes.

Clearly, Ollivander could see magic, or at least auras. Just as clearly, McGonagall could not. He wondered if it was a skill that could be learned.

With a sigh, Harry went to slip the wand into his wrist holster, making a mental note as he did so to purchase a proper dragonhide holster at the earliest opportunity. He thought forward to the remaining four weeks of the holiday before he would go once more to Hogwarts.

The next four weeks... would be spent mostly with Hermione. A much more youthful and childish Hermione than he remembered, but he had been young once too so that should be no problem. He had found that he himself reacted childishly in some ways, too; he supposed that his reactions were partly his experience and partly caused by his body.

Whatever the cause, he found himself very much looking forward to his friendship with her. It had been delightful to be with her today, and he felt an attraction to Helen Granger, too. Something about her called to him. He was looking forward to getting to know her, too, over the next four weeks.

Four weeks! If four weeks, he would be at Hogwarts. If four weeks, he would share a place with the possessed Quirrell. How would he play that particular game? He knew that Voldemort was weak, very weak, in his sprirt form, yet that same form gave him some resilience. A simple curse would not kill Voldemort in his current state.

He would have to try and find a way of imprisoning or banishing his spirit, or would have to wait until his spirit was once more bound with flesh. That hideous ceremony at the end of his fourth year, assuming the timelines remained the same.

No! No, he would not allow the imprisonment of Sirius to go on any longer than it had to! And that meant revealing Pettigrew early, which in turn, threw out the whole timetable for the return of Voldemort. For without Pettigrew, who would perform the Dark Arts rituals that would create the homonculus that was the starting point for that ceremony at the end of the Triwizard Tournament?

With another sigh, Harry sat up. If he got Pettigrew before much longer, perhaps he wouldn't be given the Dementor's Kiss, and if not, he would be able to break him out of prison – that's if Pettigrew's cunning didn't get the rat out first. It was still a terrible risk.

But the cost of not acting was enormous. He he had forced himself to not think about his godfather rotting in Azkaban for the past years, since he had not been able to do anything about it, but now that the time to meet Pettigrew was close he could hardly bear to wait.

Perhaps he should put his hope in finding a suitable spirit exorcism or capture spell? But if some such existed, why did the Headmaster not use it himself?

For now, though, he would practise. He had to become used to his new wand and bring it fully under his control lets he scare his classmates. He was filled with nervous energy, he had to do something, so why not do something useful?

With that, Harry stood and turned to face his worktable. First, some levitation.

oOoOoOo

The next morning, Harry was awake bright and early in anticipation of seeing Hermione. By way of burning off nervous energy and to help bring his new wand under control, he took advantage of the fact that he was alone in the kitchen – even Petunia wasn't up at six in the morning – to cook breakfast using magic. Standing in the centre of the kitchen, Harry started by casting a Dudley-keep-away jinx before orchestrating the bacon and scrambled eggs, the toast, and the bowls and plates and cutlery like the conductor of a culinary orchestra, or the coreographer of a foodish ballet. He snickered as he made the knives and forks march up and down the table while the plates spun in place, then bowed in a wave as the lead fork and knife passed.

Then the food was ready. The food marched itself to the table and dished itself up, orange juice poured from the fridge in an arching stream to fill the glasses without spilling a drop, and with a quick flick of his wand, warming and keep-fresh charms were placed on the food.

Applause came from the kitchen doorway and Harry jumped, his heart racing.

It was Dumbledore.

The blood racing through his veins froze at the sight. Harry had seven years experience with the headmaster of Hogwarts, and although kindly and powerful and grandfatherly, and very thoroughly good, the old man could also be ruthless and with almost a century of being the oldest and wisest and most powerful wizard he knew, Dumbledore was also well-used to getting his own way and keeping his own counsel. He was good and on the side of light, but he was also stunningly dangerous.

All this flashed though Harry's mind and it took him a moment to get himself under control. Curse his young body! He couldn't maintain his calm the way he wanted to no matter how much he tried. He took another moment to realise that he wasn't supposed to recognise Dumbledore yet, and in that moment he knew he would have to tell Dumbledore everything and hope for the best. It galled him, but even now after two lifetimes, Dumbledore still had a grasp of magic so superior to his he could hardly comprehend the difference. He would have to hope for the best.

That decided, he grasped his magic and brought his wand up to point it at Dumbledore. He said nothing, though, waiting for he old man to speak.

oOoOoOo

Albus Dumbledore looked up as the door monitor – one of the anonymous silver devices that Harry would later destroy, in a different life – showed him a brief image of Minerva McGonagall as she gave the password to his office. Interestingly, she seemed to be in a hurry. He wondered what could have happened. Gesturing, he caused his office door to open and waited for his deputy to arrive.

"Please come in, Minerva. What can I do for you?"

Minerva drew a letter from the sleeve of her robes. "It's Harry, I'm afraid. I've received a floo call from the Improper Use of Magic Office."

"Underage magic, or something more serious?"

"Underage magic, thankfully."

Albus frowned, puzzled. "But they don't usually bother with children waiting to start here for their first year. It's quite common for them to try out their new wands, especially the muggle-raised like Harry. Why would they send us a letter concerning him?"

Minerva sniffed. "Harry," she said, her tone of voice implying _unlike a normal child_, "has spent most of the night working his way through the bulk of the Charms syllabus of Hogwarts, and is currently performing numerous high-level transfiguration and animation charms."

For the first time in just about as long as he could remember, Albus Dumbledore was dumbfounded. A pre-first-year? Even those who were intensively home-schooled as happened in some Pureblood families could not do that. There was a reason why Hogwarts did not admit children before the age of eleven – before then, most children could not actually _use_ a wand; their magic was insufficiently developed.

"I know I usually deal with any over-enthusiastic first-years, but..."

"Yes, yes, I quite understand, Minerva. I'll go and have a word with young Harry now." He snatched up his ruler and tapped it with his wand, visualising the destination as _the loungerooom of Harry Potter's home_. "_Portus!_ Would you like to come, Minerva? After all, he knows you."

"I will come if you think it best, Albus..." He looked up at Minerva, surprised. Her tone was clearly reluctant.

"Is there something I should know about Harry Potter, Minerva?" he asked in a surprised tone.

"Yes, but you'll find out when you visit him. I could tell you about it if you wished, but wouldn't you rather get there and catch him red-handed, so to speak?"

Albus could not help but feel that there was something very odd going on here. Still, Minerva had a point. A child, like a puppy, reacted better if caught in the act of wrong-doing. So he nodded and tapped the freshly-made portkey with his wand.

The Dursleys' loungeroom had not changed noticeably in the five years since he had last been here. Had it truly been five years? It seemed it was only yesterday when he had been forced to come here and perform a number of regrettable actions to ensure Harry's safety in his only viable refuge from the forces of Darkness.

The feel of active magic came from the kitchen, and he stepped lightly into the hallway and stood at its end, looking into the kitchen. There, a young boy who was undoubtedly Harry Potter was orchestrating the final stages of the production of breakfast with great flair and control, visibly enjoying marching forks and knives around the table. It was a display of control he would have applauded in an adult, but in an eleven-year-old child? It was unheard-of.

With a flourish, Harry finished the display, and Albus applauded. The boy spun to face him, visibly shocked. For a long moment Harry stood there, apparently stunned, emotions flickering across his face. Interestingly, he could sense nothing of Harry's actual feelings during this time, but after a couple of seconds Harry's wand came up to point at his chest. He appeared to be deciding what to do, and realising that Harry could not possibly recognise him, he decided to introduce himself before Harry got into actual trouble with the Ministry by casting a hex or jinx.

"Harry, I am Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," he said. He was relieved to see Harry lower his wand, although he didn't put it away.

"It's nice to meet you, Headmaster," said Harry politely. "What can I do for you?"

"I came to tell you about the Restriction of Underage Wizardry, Harry. In short, children are not permitted to perform magic outside school until they turn seventeen."

Harry looked up at him, frowning. "Really?"

Feeling the need to explain a little more, Albus added, "Normally we don't need to tell students about it until they go home for the first time after attending school, but in your case that option doesn't exist. For you have been performing magic of a scale completely unexpected for a child yet to come to Hogwarts."

Albus was a little surprised to see Harry sigh, almost in defeat. The boy looked around, nodded to himself, and stepped towards the doorway.

"My relatives are getting up and Dudley doesn't know about magic. Let's talk in my room."

Standing back from the doorway to allow Harry to pass, Albus watched as Harry stepped past him and stopped in front of the broom cupboard beneath the stairs. Opening the door, Harry bent down and stepped inside. Curious and at the same time revolted at the thought that his visit to correct the boy's appalling conditions five years ago had failed, he forced himself to step to the doorway and look inside.

He saw an empty cupboard. What...? Could Harry possibly have established an illusion across the doorway? Tentatively he put his hand forward, and stretched across the doorway he felt a film of magic. It didn't have the feel of a normal illusion charm, but...? Kneeling, he put his head into the doorway, and was shocked to see that on the other side was a copy of...

"Welcome to Gryffindor-in-Surrey, Professor," said Harry, who was sprawled comfortably on a lounge with a self-assurance far beyond his years. "Please come in."

oOoOoOo

"So the question becomes, young Harry, how are you going to handle this?"

"I just don't know, Professor. It would be easy enough to release Voldemort from his possession of Quirrell once more, and simple enough to expose Pettigrew, but it's all pointless if we don't actually force Voldemort to pass on. We don't want him hanging around like a bad smell stirring up trouble. Do you know how we can do that, Professor?"

Dumbledore shook his head sadly. "No, I'm afraid I don't, my boy. But your reasoning is sound. I do not know of a way to bind a spirit to an object, so we must allow Tom Riddle to bind himself to a person's flesh permanently before we can dispose of him."

"How, Professor? I mean, killing the body he occupies will simply release his spirit once again, won't it?"

Dumbledore nodded gravely. "There are several ways, my boy, but quite a bit of research will be needed before I can determine the most likely to be successful. The only thing I can tell you for sure is that it will almost certainly be you who does the actual deed. 'By his hand.'"

Harry nodded. "As long as it doesn't involve casting _Avada Kedavra_. After the things I've seen that bastard do, I think I could even consider running him through with the Sword of Gryffindor."

Eyes twinkling, Dumbledore bestowed a satisfied smile on Harry. "I would think you will need a little training before doing anything like that," he said. Harry nodded.

"Yes. So, Professor, I should leave Quirrell alone?"

"For the time being. I have much research to do, Harry. In the mean time, I hope you will not find it too difficult to blend in with your other first-years students?"

Harry snorted. "Blend in? That never happened even in my first life. But I think I can play a believable Boy-Who-Lived, Superhero of the Wizarding World."

"I tried my best to give you a normal childhood, Harry."

"That was certainly your intention. But you left me completely unprepared to face a wizarding world who hailed me as a hero, or as an attention-seeking brat, or as insane depending on their agenda at the time."

Dumbledore looked saddened for a moment, then resigned. "I suppose you are at least well equipped to deal with it this time," he said philospohically.

"I suppose so." Harry frowned as a thought occurred to him. "Professor, are there laws about slander and libel in the Wizarding World?"

Frowning, Dumbledore said, "Not specifically, but there is a thing called the common law. If you have specific questions, I suggest you consult a solicitor."

Again Harry snorted. "I'm eleven years old! And like the Dursleys are going to let me do that – and anyway, I most _definitely_ don't want them finding out about my money or they'll find a way of taking it for themselves. They are, after all, my guardians, and have a legal right." He crossed his arms and frowned. "I need someone who acts in _my_ interests all the time, like Sirius." He paused, thinking. "I wonder if Voldemort knows that Pettigrew is a rat animagus?"

"Alas, we have no way of knowing. I gather you're considering exposing Peter Pettigrew."

"Sensing that he's an animagus as soon as I see him, or using an _Animagus Revealo_ on him by way of 'just testing', both seem fairly plausible to me."

"_Animagus Revealo_ is NEWT-level magic, Harry, although it's not usually taught even at that level."

"Why don't you just have Sirius' case reviewed? Give him a trial, for God's sake! Regardless of whether he's innocent or not, I'm not too sure I want to live in a place where people can be thrown into Hell on Earth for ten years without the courtesy of a trial!"

"I can't do that, Harry."

Harry was about to yell at the Professor, but managed to hold his tongue. It would do no good to argue with Dumbledore now, and they were after all on the same side.

"If you say so, Professor," he said at last. "Well, I'll be a good boy and not do anything the Ministry will be sending me owls for, and I'll keep my head down for the time being."

"Thank you, Harry. I look forward to seeing you on the first."

oOoOoOo

On the train to Hermione's house a little later, Harry tried not to worry about having exposed himself to Dumbledore. He knew he had little choice – how stupid of him not to take the time to remove the monitoring spells on his wand before starting to reacquaint himself with his wand – but still, the man was a loose cannon. He might decide to do something he wasn't planning for, just for his own good, of course.

Oh well, the die was cast now. He couldn't obliviate the Headmaster; there was too much risk of the spell not working for any number of reasons. For now, he had to be an eleven-year-old. An abnormal eleven-year-old, but an eleven-year-old nonetheless.

Which basically meant, no sex. Eleven year old children were _not_ sexually aware, unlike seventeen year olds. He well remembered the feelings he had with Susan, and looking at other young women of his class, even (or especially?) Hermione. But he had had no problem being with Hermione yesterday. Perhaps it was something to do with the body, as it developed? He would have to see if he could find out for sure.

OooOoOo

Helen Granger stood waiting for Harry's train. She was so happy that Hermione had met someone nice straight off. She hoped the two would develop a friendship; from what Minerva had told her yesterday, Harry needed a friend as much as Hermione.

Ah, here came the train now. A surprising number of people pushed their way off before the waiting city-bound commuters surged onto the packed train. She stood back, out of the way of the hurrying people, and waited for Harry to make himself known.

And there he was, she saw, as the last of the adult commuters passed her as they made their way to the exit. She stepped towards him, curving to meet him as they both made for the exit.

"Good morning, Mrs Granger," said Harry with a happy smile. She returned the smile, looking down at him.

"Good morning, Harry. I must say, Hermione is very eager to begin reading about... her school material." She silently berated herself; she had almost said _magic_.

"It wouldn't surprise me if she spent all last night reading."

Helen suppressed a giggle. _He's more right than he could possibly know._


	6. Chapter 5

Undo, Retry  
Chapter 5

by Olafr – Harry Potter and associated milieu, characters, and situations are owned by J.K. Rowling and her licensees. This is a work of fan fiction, produced solely for enjoyment. No infringement of rights is intended.

**Rating:** PG (so far)

**Last updated:** 8 April 2005.

**Author's Notes:** Harry and Hermione become friends, and the trip on the Hogwarts Express.

oOoOoOo

_"Good morning, Mrs Granger," said Harry with a happy smile. She returned the smile, looking down at him._

_"Good morning, Harry. I must say, Hermione is very eager to begin reading about... her school material." She silently berated herself; she had almost said _magic

_"It wouldn't surprise me if she spent all last night reading."_

_Helen suppressed a giggle. 'He's more right than he could possibly know.'_

oOoOoOo

The walk to the Grangers' home was less than ten minutes. The got back just in time for Helen Granger to kiss her husband, Terence, as he went out the door to attend their dental surgery for the day.

As this happened, Hermione ran out from what Harry later discovered was the kitchen, which also had a small dining table which was used for breakfasts and for general utility purposes. When she saw Harry, her face lit up with a shy smile and she stepped forward to face him.

"Hello, Harry," she said shyly. "Thank you for coming over."

Returning her smile, Harry replied seriously, "Thanks for inviting me." Then his smile widened into a broad grin and he continued, "Did you read any of your books last night? Did you try anything out?"

"I started reading _The Standard Book of Spells Volume 1_. I didn't actually try anything out, though. I wanted to read the books first. Did you try a spell? Did it work?" Harry nodded wordlessly, and Hermione almost bounced up and down in glee. "Well, come on, then, come and show me. We can work on it together."

Helen Granger smiled down at the children as Hermione took Harry's hand and dragged him into the kitchen where Hermione had been reading one of her school books over breakfast. The breakfast dishes had been cleared away, but Hermione had remained, fascinated. Now, it appeared she had made a friend and found someone to share her fascination with. It was lovely to see; Hermione's school this past year had been a difficult environment for her. She sometimes regretted not putting Hermione into a school for gifted children, but they had thought that a more normal social environment would be better for their only daughter. In retrospect that had been a mistake, but at least now it seemed that things would be better for her from now on.

With that thought, Helen closed the front door and followed the children into the kitchen. Just because he was magical didn't mean Harry, for all his earnestness, didn't merit watching at least at first, and she thought through her morning activities so that the children would be more or less under direct supervision at first.

She would start with some baking.

oOoOoOo

The pencil remained firmly on the tabletop. Hermione withdrew her wand, crossed her arms, and pouted. Harry had made it look so easy! Why couldn't she do it? She knew she wasn't stupid, but maybe she just wasn't cut out to be a witch after all?

No! She would do it. She would keep at it until she had levitated that rotten pencil, or she wouldn't sleep that night! She'd show Harry Bloody Potter, so she would! With a nod and a spirit of determination, she uncrossed her arms and pointed her wand at the red-painted, B2 pencil.

"_Wingardium LeviOhsah!_"

The chewed end of the pencil mocked her with its motionlessness. Frustrated, she tried again, this time pointing at a wadded-up sheet of paper, almost shouting, "_Wingardium Leviosa!_" Nothing. "_Wingardium Leviosa!_"

She was a failure. She felt like she wanted to cry. A hand on her forearm broke her concentration and drew her out of her funk. "Hermione, just a moment."

Frustration jerked her naescent sadness into anger. She glared at Harry. He smiled back at her gently, pushing the hand containing her wand down so that it rested on the tabletop. Taking a hint, she let the wand fall out of her hand onto the table, and sadness returned as she watched it roll out from beneath her hand. It came to rest after a moment.

"Hermione... listen for a moment." Looking back at Harry, she saw that he was looking at her with a serious expression.

"What?"

"I did this before, and you assume it's easy. The thing is, I made myself a wand to help get my accidental magic under control but it took me over a year to be able to use it."

Hermione stared at him in horror. "A year! What...! They couldn't possibly...! No, no, they wouldn't have us buy a spellbook if we weren't expected to _do_ anything in our first year. You must be wrong!" Calming a little at her own argument, she added, "Besides, Mr Ollivander said that you'd made the wand wrongly. You were working against resistance."

"Yes. But what I meant was, I know how magic is supposed to _feel_. After all, I did all kinds of things like expanding my room and conjuring furniture without any spells like they describe in here." A lie... but not really; he really could do that now after extensive practice. He gestured at the book, which was open to _Wingardium Leviosa_ and had a wand movement diagram and a pronunciation guide. "I think all these are aids. Crutches to help people. I mean, if these were really necessary, would there be any accidental magic?"

"Oh! You mean, then, that you _don't_ need this to cast a spell?"

Harry smiled, and pointed his wand directly at the pencil. Closing his eyes for a moment, he breathed deeply in and out then in again, then opening his eyes once again and without a single word or movement of his wand, the pencil began to float. Now Harry moved his wand, like a pointer. As he pointed, the pencil followed, but not every movement was caused by the wand. He made the pencil spin in place, and pirouette on its axis, and even move closer and farther away, all without fancy movements, to say nothing of a swish-and-flick.

Then the pencil rested once again on the table and Hermione's eyes were sparkling with excitement. "Please, Harry, can you show me how to do that?"

Harry nodded. "Yes, of course I will. Err, I mean, I'll try. I'll try my very hardest."

There was a long pause, which Hermione broke by saying, "So? How do you do it?"

"Intent, focus, relaxation, and decision."

"Excuse me? What do you mean by that?"

"You must know what you _intend_ to do, and you must _focus_ upon it. You must _relax_, so that your power will flow, and you must _decide_ to perform the spell."

"I don't understand. Maybe if you gave an example. Like, what process did you go through when you levitated the pencil?"

"Well, my _intent_ varied, but to start with I decided I wanted it to float in line with my wand, staying the same distance away, and remaining otherwise still. I _didn't_ decide that I just wanted it to rise, or it would have just gone up and not stopped until I decided for it to stop." He smirked a little in memory. "I put a book through the ceiling once that way." He shared a laugh with Hermione, and continued.

"Um, focus. I focused on my magic, feeling it and telling it that I needed it to do something for me, and I focused on the pencil – I didn't want the table itself to levitate, after all. Relaxation, you have to relax when you cast a spell or your magic won't flow. It's rather like having to hold on when you can't get to the toilet; tensing up like you were before only ensures that your magic can't get out. And decision, I imagined a valve in my wrist to control the flow of magic; when I wanted to start levitating I flipped the valve on; when I wanted the spell to end I turned it off."

"Oh! And when you made it twirl about, that was varying your intent?"

Harry nodded. "That's really the most important thing. All the others you have to do, too, but if you don't control your intent properly then all kinds of weird things can happen."

"I think I get it! Looking at this book, then, the description helps set the intent so you have a mental image of what will happen; the words and the movements help focus intent and the starting and ending movements are the decision! Yes?"

"I guess so! All I know is what works for me. I suppose that we'll spend a while in class building our confidence so that relaxation takes care of itself, too. If you doubt whether the spell will happen, it won't. You have to _know_ it will work."

Hermione sat back in her chair, looking up at the top of the far wall as she mulled things over. "I suppose," she said at length, "that I understand everything except what you meant by feeling your magic and telling it... something."

"Ah. Yes. Well, as I said it took me a while. I had to borrow books on meditation from the library before I had any luck."

"I rather imagine the meditation helped with relaxation, too," said Hermione in a not-quite know-it-all voice. Harry just shrugged in reply.

From the kitchen, Helen decided to help out. She had found the dicusssion fascinating. "Hermione," she said as she paused from stirring chocolate chips into a big bowl of bisuit dough, "books on meditation are in the unit on the left-hand wall of the library, second bay, bottom shelf."

Harry could not help but raise his eyebrows. "Library?" he asked, trying to sound surprised.

"Knowledge is power, Mr Potter," said Helen archly. "Knowledge is power." Then she ruined the effect with an impish smile. "Besides, both Terence and I are bibliophiles. We love to read, and I rather think we've passed that trait on to Hermione. Which reminds me, Hermione dear, I want to teach you some speed learning and memory skills before you go off to Hogwarts. They were ever so valuable when I was in Uni; I really wish I'd known how earlier. Perhaps Harry might like to learn, too. A trade for his help to you, don't you think?"

oOoOoOo

September the first dawned bright and clear, and Harry bounced out of bed in good spirits. Today was the day! Today was the day he would go to Hogwarts, would meet once again all his old school friends, would be imbued in the magical atmosphere of that magical place.

He had been staying with the Grangers for the past two weeks. Comments he had dropped accidentally-on-purpose combined with artful disingenuousness had resulted in a semi-permanent invitation to live with the Grangers and a deep contempt by the Grangers of the Dursleys. He had accepted, knowing that he would not have to worry about staying with the Dursleys to recharge his 'protection' until the following summer, although he said nothing about that to the Grangers for now. Besides, he _liked _staying with the Grangers – they made him feel welcome, even loved, and after ten years of the Dursleys he hungered for the affection he got from Mrs Granger in particular like a man in a desert thirsted for water.

He had spent the time relearning magic with Hermione, building a friendship that seemed more a meeting of equals than it had last time. They had even raided the several bookstores in and around Diagon Alley on two occasions while both elder Grangers were at work, catching the train and hiding Harry's scar beneath an artfully positioned wizard's hat once they entered the Leaky Cauldron. He had also paid a rather shady character to remove the Ministry tracking from their wands on their first visit.

He mused as he showered about the fact that it had taken him so long and so much costly experience to gain an appreciation of knowledge that Hermione had already had at age eleven, and wondered how the coming year would go. In particular, what of Ron?

What _of_ Ron?

He still had no answer to that question as he stepped into the kitchen for breakfast to be greeted by the other members of the family.

oOoOoOo

Kings Cross Station hustled and bustled around them as Mr and Mrs Granger accompanied Harry and Hermione as they pushed their way along Platform 9. It was barely ten o'clock, almost an hour before the Hogwarts Express was due to leave, but the Grangers were believers in the virtues of arriving early for airplanes and trains and so here they were. It was Sunday, so they didn't have to deal with the crush of commuter traffic, although it was still fairly busy with people bustling to and fro. Both their parents could take the time to see them off, which Harry decided was very nice.

When did he start thinking of Mr and Mrs Granger as his parents? The thought made him zone out, trying to remember when his mental shift had occurred.

"So where's the barrier you were telling us about, Harry?" Mrs Granger's voice startled Harry out of his reverie, and Hermione giggled when he jerked in surprise. He hauled his cart to a stop as he saw that they had just passed the right spot, and there was a moment of confusion as he led them back slightly to stand by the visibly solid and broad brick pillar.

"This is it," he said.

"Are you sure?" asked Mrs Granger uncertainly. She reached out to touch the somewhat worn bricks, and was faintly surprised when they felt precisely normal – solid, rough, and quite cool to the touch. She pulled her hand away and ran her thumb over her fingertips, feeling the faint not-quite-there impression of grit which faded away as her mind told her that the feeling was impressions left in her fingertips, not actual grit that had come loose from the bricks. "It feels quite solid to me."

Harry nodded, smiling. "Yes. But here, watch." With that, Harry pushed his hand through the slightly treacle-like resistance of the barrier. Helen goggled at the sight of Harry's hand embedded up to his wrist in the apparently-solid wall. "I see," she said. "Simple but effective."

Withdrawing his hand, Harry drew the others to one side where he stopped and stood, awkwardly. "I'm sorry but I don't know how to get you through the barrier," he said regretfully. "So we'll have to say goodbye here."

"Cheer up, Harry," put in Mr Granger with a light slap to his shoulder. "We know you'll take good care of our little girl."

"Yes, that's right," said Mrs Granger with a brittle brightness that almost had Harry in tears. "We'll see you at Christmas. You will come, won't you Harry?"

Nodding, Harry smiled at her, though Helen saw a shadow pass behind his eyes. "I'd love to."

"Good, we'll expect to see you then. Well, have a good term, children," she said as she pulled Hermione into a strong hug. "Don't forget to write!"

"Bye bye, mum," said Hermione with the same brittle brightness as her mother. "I won't."

oOoOoOo

Harry allowed Hermione to select a compartment in the nearly-empty train, and now they sat side by side, watching as the crowd of people on the platform rapidly swelled. People greeted one another, children of all ages gathered in clannish groups away from their parents, and younger children ran around underfoot, squealing and playing together. By twenty to eleven, children variously dressed in muggle clothing, brightly-coloured summer robes, and the occasional black Hogwarts uniform robe were streaming onto the train to claim their compartments before returning to the platform to say their final goodbyes. Around them the other compartments in their car filled up, the rolling and banging noises of the compartment doors opening and closing forming a counterpoint to the thud of running feet and the growing swell of voices of all ages. It was about a quarter to eleven when the door to their compartment flung itself open. In the doorway stood a burly fifth year that Harry recognised as Marcus Flint, with a number of his classmates standing in the corridor behind him. Flint's lip curled.

"You're in our compartment, firsties," he snarled. "Out."

Hermione made to move but Harry stilled her with an unobtrusive hand. "I'm sure there are plenty of other compartments," he said.

Flint's beetle brows grew together as he glowered impressively at the pair. "I don't much care, Firsty. Now get out before we throw you out." To underline his words, he drew his wand threateningly.

So smoothly that it was done before Flint could react, Harry's wand flew into his hand from his recently-purchased wrist holster and he cast an exclusion ward. "You're not very polite," said Harry disdainfully, adopting Hermione's toffee accent for the moment. "I can see that your education in the social mores has been rather lacking. Perhaps if I put it in words of a single syllable you will be able to understand me," he said casually, even as he tensed internally, ready to spring into action. "Get stuffed, you unlettered yob."

There was a gasp from the girls standing behind Flint, and Harry silently cast his strongest shield just in case. Flint's eyes bulged in disbelief which rapidly turned into incandescent fury. "Why you little...! I'll teach you! _Diffindo_!"

The cutting curse burst forth from Flint's wand, only to reflect almost instantly from an invisible barrier only two feet in front of him, whereupon it reflected back upon him and opened a wide gash in his shoulder. Blood began to flow from the cut almost immediately, even as Flint fell backwards under the power of his own curse.

Harry stood and strode over to stand near the door to the compartment. "What. A. Moron," he muttered disdainfully, loudly enough for the others in the corridor to hear. "I suppose I'd better heal him." With one quick motion, and no further words, Harry healed Flint and looked up at the crowd that had gathered outside his and Hermione's compartment. "Why don't you all go and find somewhere to sit?" he said, his voice once again pleasant. "I'm sure you're not comfortable standing around there." With that he closed the compartment door before returning to his seat. He sighed deeply as he sat, his elbows on his knees, looking at the floor.

After a moment, he looked up to see Hermione looking at him with concern in her eyes. He smiled at her. "So what do you think, Hermione? Should I play the casual and powerful nobleman? I don't think it went very well just then, do you?"

Hermione's concern broke, and she smiled. "I'm not sure," she said. "Aren't you rather committed now? I mean, a first year, defending himself against an older student... don't you think word will spread?"

Harry looked back to the floor, grasping his hair in his hands. "Arrgh! I didn't think of that. God, what have I done?"

There was a long pause. Then, Hermione asked, "What do you mean?"

He looked up at her. "I didn't want to do that. I didn't want to make a splash, never mind what I told Dumbledore. I want friends, like you, Hermione. I want to be with people who like me for myself. I don't want hangers on who are attracted by a display of power."

"Well, it's not like you wouldn't have had to deal with people like that anyway. I mean, just look at the way you've been written up in the history books. And that book of children's stories! Can you imagine the kind of image the children going to Hogwarts right now have of you? They might have been told the story of Harry Potter, defeater of the Dark Lord Voldemort, since they were little children!"

"Urrgh," agreed Harry as he grasped his hair in his fists.

"Why don't you look at it this way, Harry. Let's go and find some other first years and see if we can't find some other muggle-borns like me who don't know anything about you? And maybe we'll find some other people who don't assume you're some kind of demi-god."

"God, like I helped that today. Can you imagine what it's going to be like once the story gets around?"

Hermione smirked, and patted him on the shoulder. "Oh, Harry. Think. They won't say a thing. Imagine the ribbing they'd get saying they were defeated by a first-year."

Harry sat up and pulled Hermione into a warm hug. "Thanks, Hermione. You always seem to know how to make me feel better."

Flushing a little, Hermione hugged Harry back for a moment then gently pushed him away. "Come on, then. Why don't we change into our robes and then go and see what we can find?"

oOoOoOo

Harry and Hermione eventually found a compartment of fellow first-years. They were all girls, but Harry didn't mind that. In fact, the notion of finding Ron Weasley and being asked to show his scar made him slightly queasy, for all that he missed the boistrousness of their relationship. Perhaps Neville would be okay, though. He was nice and quiet.

For the meantime, though, Hermione led him into the compartment. It was she who had peered into every compartment on the way down, she who had gasped in shock after opening one compartment which had had its glass turned opaque, Hermione who talked briefly with one or two compartments before emerging shaking her head... and now she who picked out this compartment of people to join. Harry was quite happy for her to do this – even after over twenty years of life experience, he was still reluctant to push himself forward or to meet new people. He preferred his own company or that of people he trusted – a very short list. Meeting new people was difficult for him as he was always on edge, waiting for the hated glance up to his scar and the prejudice which followed.

So it was with some nervousness that Harry allowed himself to be pulled along by the hand into the compartment. Inside were four girls, two blondes and two brunettes. The brunettes he recognised immediately as the Patils, but the blondes he was not quite certain about. Something tickled his memory...

The Patils were sitting side by side at the window end of one of the seats; one blonde sat next to the Patils while the other sat by the window opposite them, leaving the two seats closest to the compartment door open. Hermione dragged Harry into the seat and sat down with a little flounce, smiling at everyone in the compartment before turning to him. The other girls looked on expectantly, almost eagerly.

oOoOoOo

The train trip had been decidedly fun, Harry reflected as he walked down the twisty, shadowed path with the other first-years to the lake. After the initial shock of the girls at being introduced to _the_ Harry Potter, they had soon become used to him and he had enjoyed the chance to get to know the four girls from a point of view he had never had before – meaning, without house affiliations to get in the way. After a little while, Lavender Brown rejoined them – Lavender and the Patils were old acquaintances – and in the resulting press of bodies, with some playful sitting in laps (especially Harry's), Harry somehow ended up with Hermione squished against his side as four of them sat in seats designed for three. He didn't mind in the least, and Hermione didn't seem to mind the arm he put about her shoulders as she leaned against his chest. In his mind Harry knew that there could be nothing romantic in the gesture, although this 'knowledge' was rapidly eroded by repeated teasing from the other girls and Hermione's occasional blushes.

It wasn't until Lavender and Parvarti and their newly-recruited partner in crime Hannah started pushing for them all to play a kissing game – with shrieks at the prospect of Harry kissing them all – that Harry's long-lived idea that girls of age eleven were pure creatures with no thoughts of boys at all died a final death. After talking Padma and Susan into playing, and finally a weakly-protesting Hermione, Harry's participation had been assumed.

Watching the girls kiss each other had been a genuinely peculiar experience. He had taken his turn kissing each of the girls – or rather, being kissed by them – and he had been surprised at how different they felt. Hermione was hard bone and muscle, as he had become used to, whereas Susan, Hannah and Lavender were already beginning to feel more like the young women of his memories from his previous life, and the Patils were hard and dense, all muscle but no boniness, as though they were hewn of solid, hard rubber.

It was nothing serious, though, even though the obvious familiarity between himself and Hermione had been the subject of some teasing from the other girls.

The only disruptions had come when Neville had come looking for his toad, Trevor – Harry had retrieved the errant pet with a quick _Accio_ – and later, in the mid-afternoon, when Draco Malfoy had made an appearance.

The door had thrust itself open with a bang, Malfoy standing in the doorway with a few other children gathered behind him. Harry recognised Goyle and Crabbe and Nott, but there were a few other kids lurking about too. Malfoy stared at him with a direct gaze.

"Word's been going up and down the train that Harry Potter is aboard," he drawled in the manner of a bored 1930's aristocrat. "Are you he?"

Harry nodded cautiously. "Yes."

"I'm Draco Malfoy," said the blond-haired boy said. "I see you're starting early," he added with a leer.

Harry stood, his hand on Hermione's arm preventing her from jumping up in indignation. The other girls were annoyed but waited to see what Harry had planned. "I don't appreciate what you're insinuating, Malfoy."

Hermione stood and thrust herself between them, her hand extended. "I'm Hermione Granger. How do you do?"

Malfoy turned his head to look down his nose at her, his lip curling like he had stepped in something unsavoury. "Nobody likes a pushy mudblood, Granger," he sneered. He stepped forward only to encounter the same transparent wall that Flint had run into earlier. "What the...?" he exclaimed in shock. He felt at the wall, finally pushing hard. "What's going on here?"

With a snort, Harry replied, "For someone brought up in the world of magic, Malfoy, you don't seem to know much about it." He grinned mockingly. "It's called a 'shield'."

Malfoy snarled even as he flushed red in humiliation. "Just you wait, Potter; you'll soon see who really knows magic."

"I look forward to the day, Malfoy. Now, if you'll excuse us?" And with that, Harry reached forward and closed the compartment door in Malfoy's face.

A giggle erupted from the rear of the compartment, and Harry turned to see that the Patil girls were laughing together. "Did you see that? He looked just like some kind of mime!" Parvarti proceeded to mimic Draco pressing against the sheild, her expression drooling and cross-eyed. The other girls laughed and Harry found himself joining in as the tension in the compartment evaporated.

oOoOoOo

Stepping into the great hall, Harry allowed himself to revel in Hermione's reaction to the sheer beauty and subtle ostentation of the Great Hall. He was careful to ensure that he, too, acted the part. He caught Dumbledore's eye momentarily as he walked with the other first-years to gather near the sorting hat and its stool. The old Professor's eyes seemed to be set on overdrive, so much did they twinkle.

The sorting proceeded much as it had before. Hannah was placed into Hufflebuf, Hermione was placed into Gryffindor after a stomach-clenching wait, and the Patil girls were split up as they had been before, Gryffindor and Ravenclaw. Now it was Harry's turn, and he strode with a confident, firm stride to the sorting hat. He perched himself on the stool and Professor McGonagall placed the old hat upon his head. Immediately he felt icy, inhuman fingers probing his mind. For a long moment, nothing happened, but then...

_Well, well, well, what have we here? An occlumens! And so young, too_, said the hat. _Harry Potter... how am I supposed to sort you, Harry Potter, if you don't let me judge you?_

Harry frowned. The Hat had stressed 'young' - did it suspect something?

_Oh yes, Harry Potter, I most certainly suspect something. Your mind is far too old, too mature, for your apparent age. Still, Occlumens aren't in the habit of dropping their shields in my experience, so I think I'll have to just ask you instead. What house were in in last time, Harry Potter?_ Harry briefly wondered whether he should perhaps try for Ravenclaw house, but the Hat interrupted him. _Gryffindor, eh? Well, then, better be,_ "Gryffindor!"

With a smile, Harry slipped off the stool as McGonagall lifted the hat from his head. He waved to Hannah and Padma as walked to join Hermione and Parvarti at the Gryffindor table. The girls hugged him and as Percy Weasley thumped him enthusiastically on the back in greeting, his greeting lost beneath the general pandemonium, Harry grinned as he thought forward to the coming year. So much to do... and by the end of the year, he was sure, Voldemort would be forever a memory.


End file.
